


Like a Servant, As a King

by DarlingDearestDemonic



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Aragorn/Boromir - Freeform, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Bottom!Aragorn, Caras Galadhorn, Consensual Sex, M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rough Sex, movie-verse, surprised!Merry, surprised!Pippin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-13 16:22:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3388328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarlingDearestDemonic/pseuds/DarlingDearestDemonic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boromir had stopped to face him, his countenance both proud and curious at once. The edge of his sword once again swept along against Aragorn’s neck. Suddenly the Ranger reached out and clasped the flat edge between his hands. Gingerly, he let his fingers fall to rest over sharp edges. “Boromir,” he lowered his voice, “So long as you don’t do me grievous injury or, worse, death, you may do with me what you will.”</p>
<p>In which Aragorn takes a pounding for the sake of the Company as two very nervous Hobbits watch the whole thing unfold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a Servant, As a King

“Merry! Merry! Wake up quick! He’s going to kill him!”

                Merry woke to the sight of Pippin’s face looming close above his (which was not an uncommon occurrence.) He pushed the younger Hobbit away and tried to make sense of his words. It was no easy task as Pippin was hopping from one foot to the next and his words, unsteady due to his bouncing, were running together into one long stream of excitement.

                “Kill?” Merry said groggily. An image of Frodo being hauled away by a band of Orcs and carried towards a fire filled his mind. Suddenly he felt wide awake. “Kill who?”

                But Pippin’s tireless feet had already carried him quite a ways away, his voice leaving a trail of high, jostling notes behind him. Merry cursed and struggled to stand up. For a moment he considered waking the others but decided against it. It was all too likely for Pippin to find trouble in the time that it took for him to rouse the rest. So he grabbed his cloak and rushed after the young Hobbit, past staircases wrought of white stone, round woody pillars, and finally to the very gates of Caras Galadhon. There Pippin stood speaking to one of the sentinels. When he saw Merry approaching Pippin turned to face him and began speaking in a flustered panic.

                “They won’t help him! They said that he gave orders to be left alone even if there are sounds of distress. Come on!”

                Off he dashed again, quicker than an upset serpent and quieter than a feline before its prey. Before the sentinels had time to respond to Merry’s apologetic glance both Hobbits were already through a gap in the gate that faced a dense, untrammeled forest. Merry soon caught up with Pippin and kept a steady pace beside him.

                “Pip! What is going on?”

                “I was only out for a stroll, honest! I thought I’d like to see the edges of the city again before we go! But then I heard voices and they sounded terrible.” He heaved in exasperation. “Well, not terrible but low and angry like the speakers were about to fight. And that’s when I saw him draw his sword-”

                “Saw who?”

                They had reached a particularly thick cluster of ancient oaks whose thick roots had broken up a patch of earth between them. It was there that a small, dark clearing had been formed. Merry saw none of this for his gaze was settled on Pippin’s face which was full of horror and anxiety as he gazed into the clearing.

                “Who, Pip?”

                “Boromir!” But it was not Pippin’s voice that answered. Merry looked into the clearing and saw to his surprise two men who he had previously mistaken as leafy shadows. The tip of Boromir’s sword was leveled against Aragorn’s neck, ever so slightly grazing the man’s bearded chin. Merry gasped and grabbed Pippin’s shoulder.

                “Aye, you could do it,” Aragorn was saying in a calm voice. He looked as if he was not concerned with the presence of the sword or the cunning in the eyes of the man who wielded it. “But you know my terms.”

                “That does not mean that I have to agree with them,” Boromir said. Slowly he began to circle Aragorn, tracing a gentle outline around his body with his sword.

                “You wouldn’t be agreeing with them, my friend, you’d be agreeing the most basic terms of honor. I should think that a man of Gondor would respect so small a price in the face of so great an offer.”

                “Don’t be a _fool,_ Ranger.”

                “I fear for the safety of this Company. Indeed I fear for the outcome of this trial and all who shall be forced to witness it. But no matter how hopeless it may feel to some, Boromir, I will not ignore the glimmer of hope that I see in the distance.” Boromir had stopped to face him, his countenance both proud and curious at once. The edge of his sword once again swept along against Aragorn’s neck. Suddenly the Ranger reached out and clasped the flat edge between his hands. Gingerly, he let his fingers fall to rest over sharp edges. “I will not let that glimmer be extinguished by something that is in my power – our power – to correct. Boromir,” he lowered his voice, “So long as you don’t do me grievous injury or, worse, death, you may do with me what you will.”

                Pippin gasped and made a move to rush into the clearing but with a firm hand Merry pulled him back.

                “Why would he do that?” He said in an angry voice. “Boromir will kill him!”

                “No he won’t, no he won’t, Pip,” Merry whispered as he placed a hand over Pippin’s mouth, “Now that I think about it, Boromir and Strider have been acting strange towards each other lately. But I do think there’s honor in Boromir’s heart.”

                “And death in Aragorn’s, apparently,” Pippin said through Merry’s fingers. Merry bid him to be silent and promised that Strider had a plan, though what it was Merry could not guess.

                “This is a trick,” Boromir was saying. He lowered his sword and glanced around the clearing as if he feared the very trees whose bowed bows stood twisted above them. “You and the Sorceress, you’re in this together. I heard her speak to me, you know, and her words were vengeful and unkind.”

                “Only an unsure heart would speak such of the Lady Galadriel. And only a man who carries vengeance against _me_ would speak such of me.”

                Boromir gave him a strange look. “There is no one else here?”

                “No.”

                “And you know what I would do to you? To ease my vengeance.”

                “I do.”

                The fair-haired man reached out and gripped the front of Aragorn’s shirt. He pulled him in close until the tips of their noses were just barely touching and their chests heaved against each other for the battle of breath. Boromir’s next words were full of hate. “I will be merciless.”

                True to his word, Boromir turned Aragorn around and marched him towards a particularly wide trunk of a tree alarmingly close to where Pippin and Merry sat huddled together. So close was he that the two Hobbits could see the weariness in his silver eyes and the lines of his knuckles as he gripped the trunk of the tree. Boromir bent him roughly at the waist, all the while keeping a firm grip on the Ranger’s hair. With the other hand he fumbled at his trousers and then Aragorn’s.

                “I’ve wanted to do this ever since I saw your _smug_ face at the Council of Eldrond,” the waist of Aragorn’s trousers gathered around his boots which had been kicked apart by Boromir’s own sturdy shoes. With one hand he pushed the bottom hem of Aragorn’s shirt away from his waist and with the other he held the strong hips in place. “Aragorn son of Arathorn,” Boromir spit with contempt on Aragorn’s entrance and without hesitation penetrated him with four fingers. The Ranger winced and his knuckles began to turn white as he tightened his grip on the trunk. His entire body rocked against the trunk as Boromir pushed his fingers into him. “A man of the woodlands who claims a right to my kingdom. I will not see it done!”

                As the last words fell from his lips Boromir forced his length into Aragorn’s body. Both men gasped at the sudden feeling. Never before had the Hobbits seen such pain on the Ranger’s face and they both yearned to go forth and help him. However, they both felt that it was a matter that they could not interfere with. An unguarded cry of pain escaped Aragorn’s lips and the trees themselves seemed to carry it far and wide in sorrow through their forest. Until that moment Boromir had let his head fall back and his eyes close in pleasure as he held Aragorn against him. Now, the sound of Aragorn’s voice roused him and he pulled out slowly. Again, he forced himself into the Ranger with a grunt. Slowly he thrust into the Ranger and at first his hips moved in a clumsy, jerky fashion. “You’re so tight around me. Why do you quiver so?” The man moved in and out of him in a series of quick, trembling strokes that made Aragorn hiss. Boromir began to gather speed then and his thrusts gained more force until the forest was filled with the sound of flesh hitting flesh. From their leveled point of view the Hobbits could only watch, entranced, as the muscles in Aragorn’s hips twitched and spasmed every time Boromir entered his body.

                The Ranger’s face was lowered, his head ducked beneath his straining arms. Strands of black hair obscured all but his bearded mouth which was pulled into a toothy grimace. The noises that escaped him were primal and somehow beautiful as his head bounced in time to rhythm with which Boromir rocked on his feet. A strained exhalation escaped the fairer-haired man’s lips and suddenly he grasped at Aragorn’s hair and forced his head up. The Hobbits suddenly found two glinting silver eyes staring straight at them. Though his thrusts had quickened Boromir slowly leaned over Aragorn until his chin was brushing the Ranger’s shoulder.

“Tell me, Aragorn,” Boromir said in a tight voice as his nails dug into the flesh of Aragorn’s hip. Both men grunted through gritted teeth. “Who is your king?”

               For the longest time it seemed as if Aragorn would not respond. His eyes were closed and his cheek was pressed against the bark of the tree. Soon the rest of his chest was pressed against the trunk too as Boromir penetrated him in a new position, faster and with more malice than before. By now the only sounds that escaped Aragorn’s lips were a series of high and ugly cries. He curled his hands against the tree trunk and turned to face away from the Hobbits. When he looked back again a small, sad smile had lit his worn face. His eyes held Pippin’s own.

“You are my king.”

            Boromir’s face twisted as if in pain and his whole body shuddered. With a strained cry he fell against Aragorn and buried his nose in his neck. For the longest time he seemed to whisper in Aragorn’s ear, words low and filled with malice or love, the Hobbits could not tell. Finally, he straightened himself, huffed in satisfaction and readjusted his clothes.

“You know my terms,” Aragorn reminded him as he straightened his garments. Boromir stopped long enough to gaze at the Ranger’s back, his expression blank.

“Aye,” he said, “And you know mine. No one can know.”

“And no one will.”

         Boromir nodded and gazed around the clearing as if in a daze. He looked as if he wanted to speak but no words would grace his parted lips and so, with one last glance Aragorn’s way, he reached for his horn and shield and trundled out of sight.

          “Now, Pip!” Merry grabbed Pippin’s arm and dragged him away before the younger Hobbit could disagree. Pippin was silent and his face was struck with horror. Merry longed to comfort him but he himself was feeling the burden of what he had just witnessed settling on his mind. He had seen something that no one was supposed to see, by the terms of the two Men and by the purity of Lady Galadriel’s lands. After a while of running through the dark forest the trees began to grown thin and sparse. Caras Galadhorn was before them, shining with a beauty and innocence that they no longer understood. They stopped for a moment to rest. It was then that a voice hailed them. They turned and to their surprise saw Aragorn sitting on a boulder only a few feet behind them.

“You will find the gate sealed. It is not like the guards of the city to let strangers slip past them once, much less twice.”

        “Aragorn!” Pippin cried and dashed towards him. He wrapped his arms around Aragorn’s waist and began to sob. For a moment Aragorn stood as if shocked and then slowly he let his hands fall to rest on Pippin’s shoulders.

“I’ll kill Boromir,” Merry growled, “I’ll kill ‘im!”

“No! No, I beg of you do not harbor such thoughts. I know that I ask too much of you when I ask that you try and forget all that you have seen this night. I would have turned you away the moment that I saw you in order to spare you but my mind was…” Aragorn’s eyes flashed, “…taken at the moment.”

“But why did you do it?” Pippin finally said through his tears. Aragorn looked down at him lovingly and then kissed his forehead.

“Sometimes it is necessary to act like a servant but as a king. Remember that.”

             “What’s that supposed to mean?” Merry asked wearily. Aragorn did not answer. He removed Pippin’s arms from his waist and led them slowly back to the entrance of the great city. Both Hobbits were quick to notice that he was limping but neither had the heart to mention it. Once at the entrance he whispered a few words into the sentinel’s ear (Pippin thought he heard Boromir’s name) and the three of them proceeded to the grounds where the rest of the Company lay. Pippin immediately fell into his bundle of blankets but Merry remained by Aragorn’s side.

“Do you think he would have tried to kill you? During the quest, I mean.”

            Aragorn peered at him over his shoulder. “I do not know what he would have tried or if he would have tried anything. Or if he would have succeeded. I do know, however, that whatever discontent lay in his heart has been satisfied now and for that the quest may continue unhindered.”

“Do you really believe that?”

Aragorn was silent. He lay atop his blankets, gazing at the stars and listening to the music around him. Finally he said, “I do not know what I believe anymore.”

#

            Days later, when the Company had fallen idle upon a cursed shore, Pippin found himself helping Sam rearrange their baggage. Aragorn stood nearby surveying the lands with a set face. Boromir approached him then and before Pippin could react he heard the steward of Gondor whisper in Aragorn’s ear three laden words.

“I am sorry.”

 

 

 

 

               

               

 

 


End file.
